The hour was about ten one evening in December, which in equatorial Andine latitudes is a month of clear skies, cold winds, and starry nights. The moon shone brilliantly, casting upon the ground shadows as clear as those caused by a strong electric light. Truly, the local poet who said that such nights as these might serve as days in other lands was right.

We came out—three of us, Alex, Fermin and I—through an old Spanish gateway, a rectangular structure of adobes, or sun-burnt bricks, capped with a slanting roof of tiles, dark-reddish and moss-covered, with a swinging gate of cross wooden beams, held together by iron bolts. This was the gateway of the hacienda of Boita, about thirty miles north of the city of BogotÁ, in the South American Republic of Colombia. We passed into the open road, and turned our horses and our minds northwards.

From south to north, as far as eyes could see, stretched the road, an old Spanish causeway, bordered on either side by low-lying stone fences, in front of which were ditches filled with water and covered with vegetation.

The ground was hard with the consistency of baked clay. As no rain had fallen for weeks, the dust was thick, and the horses’ hoofs rang like hammer-strokes upon muffled or broken brass. We let the reins hang loose, and the horses, knowing their way, started at a brisk canter. Wrapped in thought and in our ponchos, we journeyed on.

No sound was audible; we seemed to be travelling through a deserted or dead world; the neighbouring meadows, black beneath the moon, contrasted with the grayish white line of the broad causeway. Now and then the solitary houses, some close to the road, some far back, loomed up with the magic-lantern effects of moonlight, and their white walls seemed like huge tombstones in that lonely cemetery. Sometimes we crossed bridges, under which the water lay motionless, as though enchanted by the universal stillness; only a gentle breeze, causing ripples on the neighbouring pools, made them glitter and revealed their presence. A cow or a stray heifer would poise its head across the stone fence and watch us with wondering moist eyes, whilst two tiny columns of condensed breath rose from its nostrils.

Beyond, black and frowning, misshapen and mysterious, the huge boulders of the Andes raised their vague outlines, forming a sort of irregular circle, in some directions quite close to us, in others lost in the darkness which the moon and the stars were too remote to overcome. Indeed, that other local poet was also right in thinking that under the brilliant moon those mountains looked like huge sepulchres, wherein are stored the ashes of dead worlds upon which judgment had been passed.

And so we journeyed on.

Many travellers have observed that whenever a voyage of a certain nature is undertaken—one that for some reason or other differs from the ordinary transference of one’s self elsewhere, when through circumstances beyond our control we know that the moment of starting necessarily marks an epoch in our lives, even as the beginning of a descent or an ascent from the summit or the foot of a mountain necessarily marks a change in our motions—our thoughts fly backwards, and not only cover the immediate time and space behind us, but, once started, plunge, so to speak, with the rapidity inherent to them, into the deepest recesses of our memory, so that, as our bodies are carried forward, our minds revisit old scenes, we hold converse with old friends, and the old-time world seems to live and throb again within our hearts.

Unheeding the clatter of the horses’ hoofs, which was the only perceptible noise, my mind flew across the few leagues that separated me from my dear quaint old native town, cradled there to the south at the foot of two hills, each crowned by a tiny church. I saw its streets meeting at right angles, its two streams, dubbed rivers, parched with thirst, crawling under the ancient arched Spanish bridges, its low houses, with their enclosing patios planted with roses and flowers that bloom all the year round, with fountains murmuring in the midst, and creepers covering the columns and the ceilings of the open corridors, and then climbing out of sight; the numerous churches, each one with its familiar legend; the convents—solid, spacious—turned into barracks or public offices or colleges; the still old cells desecrated, their dividing walls torn down so as to convert the space into large halls, and, ruthless iconoclasm having carried away the statues of the saints, no other trace of religion left but a stone cross, or a carved saint’s face set too high above ground to be reached by irreverent hands.

Yes, there was the little Church of Holy Humility—El Humilladero—an adobe structure, a mere hut, yet reverenced beyond words as being, so tradition said, the first church built in the land. And not far from it the Church of la Tercera and its convent, about which gruesome tales were told. Its monks never slept on mattresses, and, as they felt death approaching, would have themselves placed upon the ground to die close to their Mother Earth; and one of them, it was said, for some misdeameanour or possibly greater fault, had committed suicide, and wandered headless—people had seen him—on dark and stormy nights through the neighbouring street of the Arch, as it was called, though of the arch nothing but the memory remained. And close to that convent of la Tercera was the other one of the jolly Franciscan Fathers, four beautiful patios surrounded with broad cloisters, into which opened over 600 cells, each provided, besides the sitting and sleeping room, with a snug kitchen, old Moorish style, an open hearth for charcoal fire, on which meats were roasted and earthenware saucepans simmered and purred all day long, extracting the juice from beef, mutton, plantains, maÑoc, green corn, potatoes, and the other numerous vegetables of that region, forming a most substantial broth, a peculiarly rich pot-au-feu which enabled the reverend monks to recruit their strength and spirits after the pious labours of the day; and with this came, it is said, a copious supply of that beer, chicha, brewed from molasses and Indian corn, strong and delicious—to those who like it. These reverend monks, it is said, owned broad lands and numerous herds, and each had a lay brother who looked after the material wants of his superior, and received daily rations sufficient for ten or twenty men, so that a great part of them was sold by the monks to the profane outside the cloister walls. As the lay brother looked after all these worldly interests, he enabled the monk to devote his whole time and attention to finding a smooth path to heaven, not only for himself, but for as many others of his fellow-creatures as he met.

But though of good cheer, they were not lacking in piety, nor were they unable to withstand temptation. Their church was beautiful, all full of gilt columns, carved woodwork, niches with statues of saints displaying rich silks and gems and gold embroidery.

And though many of these things had disappeared in my day, and of the monks only a few more vital spirits survived, downcast and forlorn, lamenting the good old times, yet enough remained to give an idea of the happier age.

A proof of the virtue of the monks was visible at the entrance of the church looking on the main street, where the Evil One himself had branded it, so to say, for the greater glory of God and the renown of the convent.

It was whispered that Father Antonio, who combined profane accomplishments with spiritual insight, skilled in playing the guitar, not averse to a song or two, fond of cards for a friendly quiet game with the Father Superior and two or three other plump, kind-hearted brethren, where small sums were staked merely to give zest to the game, discovered to his horror one night that the Evil One, possibly in memory of his namesake (the monk’s, not the Evil One’s), had decided to tempt his virtue, and appeared in his cell in the guise of a beautiful damsel.

Alas! the Evil One had reckoned without his host. Holy water was poured upon him, the cross with the Redeemer nailed on it which lay handy was taken up by Antonio, so that Beelzebub in his fright jumped out of the window with such force that his cloven foot left its imprint upon the granite slab outside the church, and this imprint I saw myself in my very young years. Although many people continue to see it, I have grown so short-sighted that, strive as I may, the stone now appears untouched and like the others. But then these things will happen, and they certainly should not lead us to doubt so pious a tradition.